Parker Pyne Investigates

The Case of the Distressed Lady

I

The buzzer on Mr Parker Pyne’s desk purred discreetly. ‘Yes?’ said the great man.

‘A young lady wishes to see you,’ announced his secretary. ‘She has no appointment.’

‘You may send her in, Miss Lemon.’ A moment later he was shaking hands with his visitor. ‘Good-morning,’ he said. ‘Do sit down.’

The girl sat down and looked at Mr Parker Pyne. She was a pretty girl and quite young. Her hair was dark and wavy with a row of curls at the nape of the neck. She was beautifully turned out from the white knitted cap on her head to the cobweb stockings and dainty shoes. Clearly she was nervous.

‘You are Mr Parker Pyne?’ she asked.

‘I am.’

‘The one who–advertises?’

‘The one who advertises.’

‘You say that if people aren’t–aren’t happy–to–to come to you.’ ‘Yes.’

She took the plunge. ‘Well, I’m frightfully unhappy. So I thought I’d come along and just–and just see.’

Mr Parker Pyne waited. He felt there was more to come.

‘I–I’m in frightful trouble.’ She clenched her hands nervously.

‘So I see,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘Do you think you could tell me about it?’

That, it seemed, was what the girl was by no means sure of. She stared at Mr Parker Pyne with a desperate intentness. Suddenly she spoke with a rush.

‘Yes, I will tell you. I’ve made up my mind now. I’ve been nearly crazy with worry. I didn’t know what to do or whom to go to. And then I saw your advertisement. I thought it was probably just a ramp, but it stayed in my mind. It sounded so comforting, somehow. And then I thought–well, it would do no harm to come and see. I could always make an excuse and get away again if I didn’t–well, it didn’t–’

‘Quite so; quite so,’ said Mr Pyne.

‘You see,’ said the girl, ‘it means, well, trusting somebody.’

‘And you feel you can trust me?’ he said, smiling.

‘It’s odd,’ said the girl with unconsciousness rudeness, ‘but I do. Without knowing anything about you! I’m sure I can trust you.’

‘I can assure you,’ said Mr Pyne, ‘that your trust will not be misplaced.’

‘Then,’ said the girl, ‘I’ll tell you about it. My name is Daphne St John.’

‘Yes, Miss St John.’

‘Mrs. I’m–I’m married.’

‘Pshaw!’ muttered Mr Pyne, annoyed with himself as he noted the platinum circlet on the third finger of her left hand. ‘Stupid of me.’

‘If I weren’t married,’ said the girl, ‘I shouldn’t mind so much. I mean, it wouldn’t matter so much. It’s the thought of Gerald–well, here–here’s what all the trouble’s about!’

She dived into her bag, took something out and flung it down on the desk where, gleaming and flashing, it rolled over to Mr Parker Pyne.

It was a platinum ring with a large solitaire diamond.

Mr Pyne picked it up, took it to the window, tested it on the pane, applied a jeweller’s lens to his eye and examined it closely.

‘An exceedingly fine diamond,’ he remarked, coming back to the table; ‘worth, I should say, about two thousand pounds at least.’

‘Yes. And it’s stolen! I stole it! And I don’t know what to do.’

‘Dear me!’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘This is very interesting.’

His client broke down and sobbed into an inadequate handkerchief.

‘Now, now,’ said Mr Pyne. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’

The girl dried her eyes and sniffed. ‘Is it?’ she said. ‘Oh, is it?’

‘Of course it is. Now, just tell me the whole story.’

‘Well, it began by my being hard up. You see, I’m frightfully extravagant. And Gerald gets so annoyed about it. Gerald’s my husband. He’s a lot older than I am, and he’s got very–well, very austere ideas. He thinks running into debt is dreadful. So I didn’t tell him. And I went over to Le Touquet with some friends and I thought perhaps I might be lucky at chemmy and get straight again. I did win at first. And then I lost, and then I thought I must go on. And I went on. And–and–’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘You need not go into details. You were in a worse plight than ever. That is right, is it not?’

Daphne St John nodded. ‘And by then, you see, I simply couldn’t tell Gerald. Because he hates gambling. Oh, I was in an awful mess. Well, we went down to stay with the Dortheimers near Cobham. He’s frightfully rich, of course. His wife, Naomi, was at school with me. She’s pretty and a dear. While we were there, the setting of this ring got loose. On the morning we were leaving, she asked me to take it up to town and drop it at her jeweller’s in Bond Street.’ She paused.

‘And now we come to the difficult part,’ said Mr Pyne helpfully. ‘Go on, Mrs St John.’

‘You won’t ever tell, will you?’ demanded the girl pleadingly.

‘My clients’ confidences are sacred. And anyway, Mrs St John, you have told me so much already that I could probably finish the story for myself.’

‘That’s true. All right. But I hate saying it–it sounds so awful. I went to Bond Street. There’s another shop there–Viro’s. They–copy jewellery. Suddenly I lost my head. I took the ring in and said I wanted an exact copy; I said I was going abroad and didn’t want to take real jewellery with me. They seemed to think it quite natural.

‘Well, I got the paste replica–it was so good you couldn’t have told it from the original–and I sent it off by registered post to Lady Dortheimer. I had a box with the jeweller’s name on it, so that was all right, and I made a professional-looking parcel. And then I–I–pawned the real one.’ She hid her face in her hands. ‘How could I? How could I? I was a low, mean, common thief.’

Mr Parker Pyne coughed. ‘I do not think you have quite finished,’ he said.

‘No, I haven’t. This, you understand, was about six weeks ago. I paid off all my debts and got square again, but, of course, I was miserable all the time. And then an old cousin of mine died and I came into some money. The first thing I did was to redeem the wretched ring. Well, that’s all right; here it is. But, something terribly difficult has happened.’

‘Yes?’

‘We’ve had a quarrel with the Dortheimers. It’s over some shares that Sir Reuben persuaded Gerald to buy. He was terribly let in over them and he told Sir Reuben what he thought of him–and oh, it’s all dreadful! And now, you see, I can’t get the ring back.’

‘Couldn’t you send it to Lady Dortheimer anonymously?’

‘That gives the whole thing away. She’ll examine her own ring, find it’s a fake and guess at once what I’ve done.’

‘You say she’s a friend of yours. What about telling her the whole truth–throwing yourself on her mercy?’

Mrs St John shook her head. ‘We’re not such friends as that. Where money or jewellery is concerned, Naomi’s as hard as nails. Perhaps she couldn’t prosecute me if I gave the ring back, but she could tell everyone what I’ve done and I’d be ruined. Gerald would know and he would never forgive me. Oh, how awful everything is!’ She began to cry again. ‘I’ve thought and I’ve thought, and I can’t see what to do! Oh, Mr Pyne, can’t you do anything?’

‘Several things,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.

‘You can? Really?’

‘Certainly. I suggested the simplest way because in my long experience I have always found it the best. It avoids unlooked-for complications. Still, I see the force of your objections. At present no one knows of this unfortunate occurrence but yourself?’

‘And you,’ said Mrs St John.

‘Oh, I do not count. Well, then, your secret is safe at present. All that is needed is to exchange the rings in some unsuspicious manner.’

‘That’s it,’ the girl said eagerly.

‘That should not be difficult. We must take a little time to consider the best method–’

She interrupted him. ‘But there is no time! That’s what’s driving me nearly crazy. She’s going to have the ring reset.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Just by chance. I was lunching with a woman the other day and I admired a ring she had on–a big emerald. She said it was the newest thing–and that Naomi Dortheimer was going to have her diamond reset that way.’

‘Which means that we shall have to act quickly,’ said Mr Pyne thoughtfully. ‘It means gaining admission to the house–and if possible not in any menial capacity. Servants have little chance of handling valuable rings. Have you any ideas yourself, Mrs St John?’

‘Well, Naomi is giving a big party on Wednesday. And this friend of mine mentioned that she had been looking for some exhibition dancers. I don’t know if anything has been settled–’

‘I think it can be managed,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘If the matter is already settled it will be more expensive, that is all. One thing more, do you happen to know where the main light switch is situated?’

‘As it happens I do know that, because a fuse blew out late one night when the servants had all gone to bed. It’s a box at the back of the hall–inside a little cupboard.’

At Mr Parker Pyne’s request she drew him a sketch.

‘And now,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, ‘everything is going to be all right, so don’t worry, Mrs St John. What about the ring? Shall I take it now, or would you rather keep it till Wednesday?’

‘Well, perhaps I’d better keep it.’

‘Now, no more worry, mind you,’ Mr Parker Pyne admonished her.

‘And your–fee?’ she asked timidly.

‘That can stand over for the moment. I will let you know on Wednesday what expenses have been necessary. The fee will be nominal, I assure you.’

He conducted her to the door, then rang the buzzer on his desk.

‘Send Claude and Madeleine here.’

Claude Luttrell was one of the handsomest specimens of lounge lizard to be found in England. Madeleine de Sara was the most seductive of vamps.

Mr Parker Pyne surveyed them with approval. ‘My children,’ he said, ‘I have a job for you. You are going to be internationally famous exhibition dancers. Now, attend to this carefully, Claude, and mind you get it right…’

II

Lady Dortheimer was fully satisfied with the arrangements for her ball. She surveyed the floral decorations and approved, gave a few last orders to the butler, and remarked to her husband that so far nothing had gone wrong!

It was a slight disappointment that Michael and Juanita, the dancers from the Red Admiral, had been unable to fulfil their contract at the last moment, owing to Juanita’s spraining her ankle, but instead, two new dancers were being sent (so ran the story over the telephone) who had created a furore in Paris.

The dancers duly arrived and Lady Dortheimer approved. The evening went splendidly. Jules and Sanchia did their turn, and most sensational it was. A wild Spanish Revolution dance. Then a dance called the Degenerate’s Dream. Then an exquisite exhibition of modern dancing.

The “cabaret” over, normal dancing was resumed. The handsome Jules requested a dance with Lady Dortheimer. They floated away. Never had Lady Dortheimer had such a perfect partner.

Sir Reuben was searching for the seductive Sanchia–in vain. She was not in the ballroom.

She was, as a matter of fact, out in the deserted hall near a small box, with her eyes fixed on the jewelled watch which she wore round her wrist.

‘You are not English–you cannot be English–to dance as you do,’ murmured Jules into Lady Dortheimer’s ear. ‘You are the sprite, the spirit of the wind. Droushcka petrovka navarouchi.’

‘What is that language?’

‘Russian,’ said Jules mendaciously. ‘I say something to you in Russian that I dare not say in English.’

Lady Dortheimer closed her eyes. Jules pressed her closer to him.

Suddenly the lights went out. In the darkness Jules bent and kissed the hand that lay on his shoulder. As she made to draw it away, he caught it, raised it to his lips again. Somehow a ring slipped from her finger into his hand.

To Lady Dortheimer it seemed only a second before the lights went on again. Jules was smiling at her.

‘Your ring,’ he said. ‘It slipped off. You permit?’ He replaced it on her finger. His eyes said a number of things while he was doing it.

Sir Reuben was talking about the main switch. ‘Some idiot. Practical joke, I suppose.’

Lady Dortheimer was not interested. Those few minutes of darkness had been very pleasant.

III

Mr Parker Pyne arrived at his office on Thursday morning to find Mrs St John already awaiting him.

‘Show her in,’ said Mr Pyne.

‘Well?’ She was all eagerness.

‘You look pale,’ he said accusingly.

She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night. I was wondering–’

‘Now, here is the little bill for expenses. Train fares, costumes, and fifty pounds to Michael and Juanita. Sixty-five pounds, seventeen shillings.’

‘Yes, yes! But about last night–was it all right? Did it happen?’

Mr Parker Pyne looked at her in surprise. ‘My dear young lady, naturally it is all right. I took it for granted that you understood that.’

‘What a relief! I was afraid–’

Mr Parker Pyne shook his head reproachfully. ‘Failure is a word not tolerated in this establishment. If I do not think I can succeed I refuse to undertake a case. If I do take a case, its success is practically a foregone conclusion.’

‘She’s really got her ring back and suspects nothing?’

‘Nothing whatever. The operation was most delicately conducted.’

Daphne St John sighed. ‘You don’t know the load off my mind. What were you saying about expenses?’

‘Sixty-five pounds, seventeen shillings.’

Mrs St John opened her bag and counted out the money. Mr Parker Pyne thanked her and wrote out a receipt.

‘But your fee?’ murmured Daphne. ‘This is only for expenses.’

‘In this case there is no fee.’

‘Oh, Mr Pyne! I couldn’t, really!’

‘My dear young lady, I insist. I will not touch a penny. It would be against my principles. Here is your receipt. And now–’

With the smile of a happy conjuror bringing off a successful trick, he drew a small box from his pocket and pushed it across the table. Daphne opened it. Inside, to all appearances, lay the identical diamond ring.

‘Brute!’ said Mrs St John, making a face at it. ‘How I hate you! I’ve a good mind to throw you out of the window.’

‘I shouldn’t do that,’ said Mr Pyne. ‘It might surprise people.’

‘You’re quite sure it isn’t the real one?’ said Daphne.

‘No, no! The one you showed me the other day is safely on Lady Dortheimer’s finger.’

‘Then, that’s all right.’ Daphne rose with a happy laugh.

‘Curious you asked me that,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘Of course Claude, poor fellow, hasn’t many brains. He might easily have got muddled. So, to make sure, I had an expert look at this thing this morning.’

Mrs St John sat down again rather suddenly. ‘Oh! And he said?’

‘That it was an extraordinarily good imitation,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, beaming. ‘First-class work. So that sets your mind at rest, doesn’t it?’

Mrs St John started to say something, then stopped. She was staring at Mr Parker Pyne.

The latter resumed his seat behind the desk and looked at her benevolently. ‘The cat who pulled the chestnuts out of the fire,’ he said dreamily. ‘Not a pleasant role. Not a role I should care to have any of my staff undertake. Excuse me. Did you say anything?’

‘I–no, nothing.’

‘Good. I want to tell you a little story, Mrs St John. It concerns a young lady. A fair-haired young lady, I think. She is not married. Her name is not St John. Her Christian name is not Daphne. On the contrary, her name is Ernestine Richards, and until recently she was secretary to Lady Dortheimer.

‘Well, one day the setting of Lady Dortheimer’s diamond ring became loose and Miss Richards brought it up to town to have it fixed. Quite like your story here, is it not? The same idea occurred to Miss Richards that occurred to you. She had the ring copied. But she was a far-sighted young lady. She saw a day coming when Lady Dortheimer would discover the substitution. When that happened, she would remember who had taken the ring to town and Miss Richards would be instantly suspected.

‘So what happened? First, I fancy, Miss Richards invested in a La Merveilleuse transformation–Number Seven side parting, I think’–his eyes rested innocently on his client’s wavy locks–‘shade dark brown. Then she called on me. She showed me the ring, allowed me to satisfy myself that it was genuine, thereby disarming suspicion on my part. That done, and a plan of substitution arranged, the young lady took the ring to the jeweller, who, in due course, returned it to Lady Dortheimer.

‘Yesterday evening the other ring, the false ring, was hurriedly handed over at the last minute at Waterloo Station. Quite rightly, Miss Richards did not not consider that Mr Luttrell was likely to be an authority on diamonds. But just to satisfy myself that everything was above board I arranged for a friend of mine, a diamond merchant, to be on the train. He looked at the ring and pronounced at once, ‘This is not a real diamond; it is an excellent paste replica.’

‘You see the point, of course, Mrs St John? When Lady Dortheimer discovered her loss, what would she remember? The charming young dancer who slipped the ring off her finger when the lights went out! She would make enquiries and find out that the dancers originally engaged were bribed not to come. If matters were traced back to my office, my story of a Mrs St John would seem feeble in the extreme. Lady Dortheimer never knew a Mrs St John. The story would sound a flimsy fabrication.

‘Now you see, don’t you, that I could not allow that? And so my friend Claude replaced on Lady Dortheimer’s finger the same ring that he took off.’ Mr Parker Pyne’s smile was less benevolent now.

‘You see why I could not take a fee? I guarantee to give happiness. Clearly I have not made you happy. I will say just one thing more. You are young; possibly this is your first attempt at anything of the kind. Now I, on the contrary, am comparatively advanced in years, and I have had a long experience in the compilation of statistics. From that experience I can assure you that in eighty-seven per cent of cases dishonesty does not pay. Eighty-seven per cent. Think of it!’

With a brusque movement the pseudo Mrs St John rose. ‘You oily old brute!’ she said. ‘Leading me on! Making me pay expenses! And all the time–’ She choked, and rushed towards the door.

‘Your ring,’ said Mr Parker Pyne, holding it out to her.

She snatched it from him, looked at it and flung it out of the open window.

A door banged and she was gone.

Mr Parker Pyne was looking out of the window with some interest. ‘As I thought,’ he said. ‘Considerable surprise has been created. The gentleman selling Dismal Desmonds does not know what to make of it.’